


Conduct of International Relations

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Top England, UKUS, mentions past France/US, pointless smut, ukxus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America goes to London, and he and England argue and banter and then have carefully meaningful sex. That's pretty much it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conduct of International Relations

**Author's Note:**

> So I really just wanted to write something with America at the U.S. Embassy in London, but then I also wanted to write him and England arguing and then having sex that was subtly schmoopy. So this is the result. It's a mess and uneven in tone but it's done, and I'm not sure what else to do with it. Hope you enjoy some anyway, and hopefully I can write something with an actual story again, soon. :) Thank you for reading!

Conduct of International Relations  
  
  
At first it had seemed like one of his usual brilliant ideas: surprise the ol' guy, snap him out of the funk he'd been in the last couple of months? America wouldn't even have to consult the fellas at data.gov to know that, statistically, his chances of achieving, er, positive international relations out of the deal were in the nineties. With a standard deviation of a measly percentage.  
  
But, as was usual for him, England managed to be the outlier. No matter that some things had ... changed between them, a year or so ago, changed in a knee-knocking, mind-bending kind of way. Other things remained the same -- arguments (sure, they'd had one last week), ideology divides (constant, more or less), missed connections (like all morning OMG).  
  
America had endured seven hours half-hard and dreaming on the plane, then the thirty-minute, buzzkilling walk through Heathrow, and, out at the mini-cab stand, under the overhang and just out of reach of the summer drizzle, the nothing. All that way, and he couldn't even get ahold of the guy.  
  
The first time he'd dialed England's number the phone had just rung, and rung, and rung. The second time he'd reached the British "improper international calls" lady -- like he'd never dialed it before?-- and on the third he'd finally reached England's voicemail. _Hi, what are you up to?_ he'd left, all bright and cheery.  
  
He'd sent a text on the Tube, but the signal was for shit so he'd sent another, later, while meandering through the crowds along Bond Street. And still? No reply, nada.  
  
Since he was already in Mayfair he'd popped by the embassy to see what was shakin'. Not much, it turned out, and eventually he'd gotten bored and decided to help. Who cared about twenty percent chances of international relations, anyway, when he could cheer up his own people, thousands of miles from home?  
  
"Hi! Welcome to the United States of America. How may I help you?"  
  
The next person in line was a young woman, hovering back with her equally young companions like a frightened rabbit. At his greeting she whiffed out a breath and stepped closer to the window, managing a tiny smile. Sometimes all it took was a friendly face: anyone who'd traveled overseas knew how grumpy customs agents could be, and wasn't that a shame?  
  
"Oh, hi! Um. My passport was stolen, ah think," she said in a still-shaky, Winston-Salem drawl. "Ah'm supposed to fly home tomorrow, and I have no idea what to do."  
  
"Well, you've come to the right place," America chirped, dialing his smile up a couple of notches. Say what you would about the safety of places like New York and L.A., these hulking old cities across the big blue had pickpocketing traditions so ancient that even the Romans had griped about them. "Do you have any other I.D.?"  
  
The woman pushed a strand of dark hair out of her face. "Yeah. Um. But just my student I.D.? It was in my hotel room, thank goodness."  
  
"Thank goodness is right! We'll getcha taken care of, never fear."  
  
Behind her the two other girls started crying just as America's phone, laying on the desk, started to buzz. He wasn't gonna look, nope. He wasn't even supposed to have it there! Still his eye caught the picture on the front. England, in profile, smiling over a cup of tea.  
  
America swallowed the bubble of something sparkly that had risen in his throat and glanced at the I.D. card the girl laid on the counter. _Buzzzzz._  
  
\--England didn't know about that picture, eighty-five percent chance of shitting a brick if he saw it--  
  
Dark hair, yep, it was her. DukeUniversity, Biology. Amanda Simpson. _Buzzzz!_  
  
\--America had snapped the photo when England wasn't looking, struck for a silly moment by the smile and the way England's eyebrows had stood out just so--  
  
America looked up again. "Well, Miss Simpson, there are some forms you'll have to fill out, and if you don't have a birth certificate handy, maybe your folks will have one they can--"  
  
 _BUZZZZZ!  
_  
"Um, do you need to get that? Sir?" Amanda said.  
  
"Oh, you don't have to call me sir." America caught the phone just before it buzzed its way off the edge of the desk. He plinked "answer." "Hold on a sec, would you?" he asked her, then he bent over the phone. "Hey, hold on a sec, okay? I'm a little busy."  
  
"It's all right--" Amanda started to say, just as a familiar voice bitched at him through the phone. _You little cunt! You think I'm not exceptionally busy as well? I was in a quite crucial bloody meeting and suddenly there are these notifications on the mobile--_  
  
England had no idea how he said _cunt_ with such affection, did he? America's belly tingled and the bubble burst out in a laugh. "Ha ha! Pardon, Miss Simpson. Diplomatic business, yannow? Hey, Ted-- help these ladies out, would you?"  
  
America slid out of the chair and Ted slid in behind him. He nabbed his phone on the way out of the booth and waved at the armed guard -- Bill -- and then made the U-turn through the glass doors and to the outside.  
  
 _trying to talk with_ _Scotland_ _, but you're the one who's busy? Are you even still there or have you just--  
_  
Gosh, it sure was a pretty day. The rain had given way a bit, and America could see blue sky between the streaks of grey cloud. He lifted the phone to his ear.  
  
"-- need to get back straightaway, and ... are you whistling?"  
  
"I dunno?" America said. Maybe he had been.  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"Grosvenor Square," he said.  
  
"Grosvenor-- what the hell are you doing there?"  
  
He crossed the street, _LOOK_ _RIGHT_ , avoiding any puddles he couldn't see the bottoms of. "Embassy, duh."  
  
On the other end of the connection England sputtered. "I meant, in London. When did you come to London?"  
  
"A few hours ago. But if you're too busy to talk, I understand."  
  
"Of course I'm too busy. With proper notice, however, I might have ..." There was a silence on the line. The sun went behind a cloud, and America might have felt a raindrop plonk onto his forehead. Then he heard a sigh. "I'll meet you at Hyde Park Corner at half-past two."  
  
America glanced at his watch-- it was one forty-five -- and back up just in time to see a stray sunbeam kiss Ronald Reagan's rain-wet head.  
  
"Sounds good!" he said. He was back up to fifty percent, at least.  
  
***  
  
There were statistics, and there were knee-knocking changes. And underneath it all lurked the inevitability, something that had been there for what seemed like forever. At least since he'd peeped out of a bush and seen the scary adults that were somehow just like him.  
  
All things considered, France prolly should have had the edge. His food was fan-fucking-tastic, for one thing.  
  
Also he was a better dresser, though when America spotted England scowling and stomping his way across Piccadilly, he had to admit that he looked pretty natty. His suit was dark brown, the color fashion guys called midnight chocolate, and when he finally looked America in the face (he didn't smile, but it looked like it might have been a close thing) it made his eyes seem a deep kind of color. Kind of like a mossy mere. America could only imagine what he'd been discussing with Scotland.  
  
"Hi," America said. And then, because he'd been caught whistling, added, "Old man!"  
  
England clenched his hands at his sides and his cheeks washed pink. Splutter incoming! But then he grinned. With teeth.  
  
"Aren't you a clever boy," he said, chucking America under the chin like he'd used to do, three hundred boner-killing years ago.  
  
"Ha ha! Touché," America said.  
  
"Right." England's smile lost some of its bite. He really was glad to see him! Or maybe not. He eyed America's casual jacket, his lack of a tie, and his low-top Chuck Taylors. "So are you here officially?"  
  
"Nope. But I did put in some time at ol' number twenty-four."  
  
"Is that what you were doing," England said. He waved at the tall, white-columned gates next to Apsley House, gesturing America into the park and off the busy corner. "Let's have walkies and you can tell me all about it."  
  
"Walkies? Woof? How much time do you have?"  
  
England's smile turned upside down. "Not much. But I needed a break. So what is the crisis? What do you want?"  
  
America could have said "to see you," but he didn't. "No crisis. I had some free time, there was a senator coming over on a personal matter, and so I tagged along."  
  
"Oh," England said. He opened his mouth like he might say something more, but then he shut it again. He looked back at his feet and headed for the rose garden. America followed.  
  
It was quieter in the garden, buffeted from the stiff breeze and the noise of the street. The brambly thickets were in full bloom and smelled amazing after the rain. It was also less crowded there, with only a few couples wandering about or sitting on benches. America breathed the rose-scented air. Maybe his bright ideas didn't always work out as calculated, but at least it had turned into a pretty day.  
  
England bent over to sniff one of the roses, taking a deep breath and then exhaling so completely that his shoulders sank into something almost resembling relaxation. He flicked a dead leaf off a yellow bloom.  
  
"Lord, I needed that," he said, turning back to look at America with half-closed eyelids. The stress lines on his face had smoothed out, blissed into extinction by the power of flower. "It's rather desperate back at Westminster, and that's between me and you, by the way."  
  
America ran a finger over his lips in a "zip" motion. It had a bonus effect of bringing England's moss-colored gaze to his mouth. England then glanced around the deserted walkway and stepped closer -- score ten points!-- and America's toes curled in his sneakers. _Twenty? Thirty?_  
  
Just then a family rounded the corner, at least three generations draped in bright colors and chattering in Punjabi, and England stepped away.  
  
"We'd better get moving," he said.  
  
America sighed at yet another missed connection. "Okay. So, uh. When do you have to be back?"  
  
"Right this bloody instant, truth be told. But I'll lie and say we have time to walk halfway to Kensington."  
  
England bought them bottles of water at a stand next to the Serpentine and they strolled along it in silence for a bit, watching as the breeze whipped up ripples that silvered the surface of the water. On the other side of the lane, on the green, the low-slung lawn chairs were filling up with people, out enjoying the new sunlight.  
  
Nobody really looked at you in London; it was kind of like New York in that way. Still, people couldn't help but know they were there. The English were too polite to stare so they just smiled vague smiles in their direction. Like they might smile at any two men together, maybe _together_ together, out for a stroll on a nice day.  
  
America thought, okay, maybe it was all right that he'd come all that way for something like this: his ... England at his side, just hanging out for an hour or so. Grab the good moments when they came? England wasn't joyful but then he rarely was. At least he looked less grumpy and that counted as cheering him up, right?  
  
Besides, he could make a move. He totally could. He could grab England's hand. Like, that was nothing. Easy-peasy! They'd had sex, for Pete's sake. A couple of times!  
  
America silently calculated his chances of getting laid, both if he did and if he didn't make the next move. Multiplied by the sunshine, but divided by the square root of England's unreadable mood--  
  
"It's a wasted endeavor," England said.  
  
America started. Shit, England was reading his mind! "What?"  
  
England pointed out on the lake. "Trying to pedal those silly boats against the wind."  
  
"Hah," America said with some relief, following England's gesture and looking at the people laughing as they pedaled and slapped at the water and yet got nowhere. "That won't stop anyone. It's a tourist thing. A couples thing. If the boats are there, then you gotta do it."  
  
The mention of couples had been a good one. England stepped closer and cocked his head, looking (slightly up and slightly sideways, a very England look) at America. He raised his eyebrow until his mouth was almost, but not quite, turned up on one side. "So why did you really come out?"  
  
And here was where careful calculation and super-suaveness might pay off. Or maybe not.  
  
"Um. To say hi?" America stuttered.  
  
"Right," England said, and turned away back to the scenery.  
  
Inevitability was an awesomely powerful force, but it was nothing in the face of a total chickenshit who didn't want to show his hand. And that went both ways, America thought.  
  
Regardless, they kept walking. Soon they reached the halfway point at Carriage Drive, where they crossed the Serpentine and made their way back along the Rue de Rois.  
  
Things totally got better, though! Just past the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain things turned all mushy and sweet. England's fingers twined with his under the trees and the late-afternoon sunlight as it dappled through the leaves to send the gravel sparkling, and they discussed life and its vagaries and wonders and they got along great and smiled sexy smiles at each other!  
  
\-- is what America wished would have happened. What really happened was that as they walked back, England's gait became more shuffling, his every step spreading little showers of gravel out before them. His shoulders slouched and his lips turned downwards at the corners. He looked as if he might start muttering darkly any moment. It was like something nasty loomed on the horizon, and even America's cheerful company wasn't enough to keep it at bay.  
  
"World's going to shit," England muttered, yep, darkly and right on cue. America had known him for much too long.  
  
"Ha ha. There are always troubles. Ever since forever, right?" America chattered in a bright voice. Yeah, things were pretty bad. But that wasn't why he was here. He sifted through his brain-files for something light and distracting. "Gosh, Rotten Row. I remember coming here when I was little. You made me dress up and sit in a carriage and behave while you talked to fancy people with silly titles. All those white wigs we used to think were so cool, right?"  
  
It was a pretty crappy distraction, all things considered. England curled his lip in a definite downward direction. "Yes, there are always troubles. And you have a finger in every pie, as usual, don't you? That's why you came out here, innit?"  
  
"Dude. Nothing like it! All my fingers are in your pie at the moment." Wow, that could be taken any number of ways, several of which America meant. He raised his hands, palms outwards, nothing hidden in them, see? "I mean, I'm just hanging out. With you. Dude."  
  
"Hmph. Scotland said you'd called."  
  
Ah, so that was it. The argument they'd had last week, which England clearly hadn't forgotten. The problem wasn't just about being two chickenshits who would never show their hands; it was also about trying to mix international politics and interpersonal relations. America had always sucked at that, and even France's touchy-feely brand of tutoring hadn't helped. Much. How had he and England ever managed it before? How did they even work as allies, let alone as anything else? America sighed and waved goodbye at his dwindling chances of diplomatic hanky-panky.  
  
"Yeah, but what's wrong with that? Scotland and I chat now and then. He's my family, too." Ouch, and there he'd said _family._ Awkward, to the power of ten.  
  
England's mood was too far gone to even notice. He pointed, nearly poking America in the nose. "You said you were neutral."  
  
"I'm totally not having this discussion right now. I am totally starving, though," America said, smiling in what was probably a totally pathetic way. "Hey! Let's go grab a late lunch. Have you eaten?"  
  
England crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air. "I'm not hungry."  
  
America tossed his raised hands in a _fuckitall_ gesture. "Okay! Fine. I'll pop down to see France, then. His food is always so tasty--"  
  
And then, lo and behold, England grabbed one of his hands, snatched it right out of the air. He clenched it, hard.  
  
"Oh, piss on France," he said and stomped off, dragging America behind along the gravel path.  
  
America grinned and let himself be dragged. He'd had to bring out the big guns: France, who would not have even needed the game, would have counted hanky-panky as just the opening shot of the match. But then, if America had wanted France, he wouldn't have been in London in the first place.  
  
At least he'd scored ... well, enough points to get back to fifty-fifty, anyway. Enough for a fresh start.  
  
***  
  
On the level playing field of The Paxtons Head, England drank an entire pint before he said, "Sorry."  
  
"No problem!" America should have said. His erection, just coming back to life, begged him to say it. But the rest of him was still miffed.  
  
It said, "No shit."  
  
England's cheeks turned pink but he didn't splutter. He just shrugged. "Touché."  
  
America laughed. He was so loud that a few people couldn't help but glance their way, but being in the heart of Knightsbridge, their not-looking reasserted itself smoothly. Very posh.  
  
America shoved a chip into his mouth. He really had been hungry.  
  
"So what now?" he said around a mouthful of chip.  
  
"Ask again when your mouth isn't full."  
  
America rolled his eyes and ate another chip. Then another.  
  
England's lips were turning up a little as he cut into his steak pie. He took a bite-- fork in the left hand, very dainty--and thoroughly chewed and swallowed the bite before speaking again.  
  
"What now, eh? Now, I decide what I'm going to do with you."  
  
Okay. That had been totally loaded, and England's smug grin showed that he knew it, too. There was money on the table. A reply could send the coin spinning in either direction.  
  
But just because America wanted to ride England's cock like it he was Pony Express didn't mean he was all in at England's whim. He swallowed his chip and took a breath before offering a neutral, diplomatic response. "Because you're very busy and very important?"  
  
"Yes, because I'm very busy and very important." England rubbed his thumb along the handle of his knife. "Where are you staying?"  
  
Oh, there was tons of money on the table. America hesitated. Yeah, he was all in. He called. "I was hoping I could stay at your place."  
  
England smiled. Wide, and so brightly and real that his eyes were practically glowing. America's erection said "score" and his stomach did a _ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine_ dance as England reached into his jacket pocket and plucked out his smartphone. He plinked a few numbers in and held the phone to his ear, still grinning at America like a goober.  
  
"Oi, Scotland? Fuck off. See you tomorrow. Cheers."  
  
He plinked the phone again and tucked it back in its pocket, then pulled out his wallet. He counted out a few double-digit pound notes and tossed them on the table.  
  
"Right. Let's go, then."  
  
Where the hell did England hide all that horniness when he wasn't using it? In his eyebrows? America gestured at the remains of his sandwich and chips. "What about my food?"  
  
"The kebab shop by Leicester Square is open twenty-four hours, in case you've forgotten."  
  
"Good reply," America said.  
  
They made it a block before America grabbed England's hand at last, and another block before they stole into a bricked-off nook for a kiss. It was urgent and wet and tasted like beer. It was pretty good, overall.  
  
It was quick, though; England wasn't big on PDA. But all he had to do was stick out an arm to get a black cab to stop. This was his home, after all, so there was always a cab if he wanted one.  
  
In the car they behaved and watched the city go by out their respective windows, but England rubbed circles into America's palm with his thumb until America was turned on and gooey enough to blurt out, "You know, that between you and me, I'm rooting for you, right?"  
  
England continued to gaze out the window but squeezed his hand so hard that America could feel the bitten edges of his fingernails.  
  
"As long as it remains my business, mind," he said. And America laughed.  
  
"Of course."  
  
They were barely through England's door (never locked; he was a wizard or some crazy thing) before America got jumped, England nailing him with fingers in his hair and long, sloppy kisses that made it hard to breathe. They weren't even going to make it up to the bedroom, America decided, but decided also that was cool. America would just melt there on the stairs, with England straddling him and trying to suck his brains out. Wherever he hid that lust he had great reserves of it, like oil underground or something. There was a geopolitical lesson in there somewhere.  
  
After a while England pulled away, hovering over him with another smug grin like he'd planned the whole thing. The twerp! America stroked England's sides under his button-down, exploring the wiry geopolitical landscape of his ribs and underarms until he was red-faced and squirming. It seemed England liked to be mauled a little bit.  
  
"So how long have you had this, then?" was England's reply, as he rubbed his butt-crack along America's erection through his pants. The smartass.  
  
"Well, let's see," America said, maybe a little breathlessly as hard shivers zipped through his belly. "It was 1745 or so, and I happened upon Sarah Anne Goodenough as she was -- _ah_ watch it with the ass -- swimming in the river. Much to my surprise--"  
  
"Oh, stop it, you," England groused, zipping America's lips with tea-stained fingers. "You remind me how young you are."  
  
Ouch. And unfortunately true, in some ways. England had gamboled in the fields with Druids and shit like that. America still had those dreams now and then, where England looked so old and so tall, and sometimes it'd all come back: England would make a certain expression, raise an eyebrow just so or something like he was _doing that very moment_ and make it all seem so bizarre--  
  
America pulled a hand from England's ribs to wipe the expression off his face.  
  
"What?" England said, his bushy eyebrows drawing down under America's fingers.  
  
America felt himself blush, no matter that he was already flushed warm from all the making out. "Nothing. But you're killing my back, here."  
  
England sighed and crawled off him, a step or two backwards down the stairs. "Then we'll repair upstairs like civilized nations?"  
  
"Um, okay," America said, as suavely as ever.  
  
Up in England's bedroom, with its heavy plaster walls that were older than several nations America could name, it wasn't much less bizarre. He toed off his shoes and then stood there, feeling suddenly a little stupid, hanging back and watching England like someone who'd lost their passport. _Hi, I came here for sex! What do I do now?_  
  
England didn't seem to notice, was humming as he lit some candles in those old-fashioned bronze holders he had. Not that they'd need the light: it wouldn't get dark until after nine. At least the candles were modern and sweet-smelling, not those old-style tallow candles that had spewed such nasty smoke back in the day. They did set a nice mood.  
  
England shucked his midnight-chocolate jacket and waistcoat; his white shirt was still untucked from where America had yanked it out earlier. He raised his eyebrows at the way America was standing there, then said _hmph_. He raised his hands to America's face and pulled him down for a kiss. He did it slow, gentle, open-eyed, stroking America's cheeks with the very tips of his fingers while he sucked on his lower lip, watching him.  
  
"Thank you for flying out," he said, and his lips were warm and soft and England's OMG making America's ribs ache with the ... the ... inevitability of it all. Somehow his heart still managed to beat, easing into overdrive at the intensity of England's gaze. Just for him. Still England kissed him, his tongue all slow and swirly, and after a few minutes of that America's blood was all rushing and hot. Forget knees knocking: his were Jell-o. He held onto England and mauled him but good until he was practically humping England's leg.  
  
England took pity on him and dragged him over to the bed. They flopped onto it side-by-side, both of them breathing in huffs. England splayed his fingers over America's crotch. No doubt he could take America's heart rate through his hard-on. It was thudding along epically.  
  
"Better now?" England asked in a low voice, still with that intent stare.  
  
"What?" America breathed, averting his eyes.  
  
"Nothing," England said lightly and kissed America on the nose. And that, that, _that_ was how it worked: being with someone who totally didn't understand you at the same time they totally did.  
  
Plus it got better: England started licking his chin and digging in the front of his khakis. Ah, the exquisite pain of bare fingers on his hot skin. Plus the way England was breathing open-mouthed and wetly on his Adam's apple was doing terrible/wonderful things to his spine.  
  
"I guess I'll have to suck you off, or this'll go nowhere very quickly," England murmured, prying open America's zipper.  
  
"Ah-- really?" America squeaked, continuing his streak of awesome repartee. It was just, England had never done that for him before. He did manage to lift his ass so England could drag his pants down his hips. Score ... _who cared!_  
  
"Yes, really. Did you just say 'score?'" England asked his breastbone.  
  
"Did I? Ungh. Don't think so."  
  
"Mmm." Happily, England got to it quickly, his slim fingers squeezing America's balls while his mouth caught his cock with slurping heat. Sadly, it didn't last. But that was America's fault.  
  
It was just, so much awesome. Like, the room smelled of rose-candles, and there they were, in the middle of the day! The barely filtered daylight through the white curtains washed England's face pale and bright, and where America's dick disappeared into his mouth he was doing some sort of ancient and arcane wizardry with his tongue.  
  
Man, wouldn't that be a picture America would like to snap right there? One hundred percent chance of never getting sucked off again if he dared. He did all he could to capture it with his brain because it took nanoseconds for the deep throbs in his belly to ratchet into the sharp, pleasurable ache of no return.  
  
His thighs clenched. He slapped the bedsheets in warning but jeeze, England actually winked at him, and America spasmed into climax.  
  
England held tight, his hand pressed into America's belly through his shudders. He licked him clean and -- glorious fellow, cheers -- swallowed before sliding up to eat America's face in another mind-bending kiss.  
  
Thus a few moments later, mind bent and his dick down for the count, America could behave through the disrobing and the lubing and could climb on and ride England's cock nice and slow. England had locked their fingers together, and the push and pull of their palms was less Pony Express and more like rowing down a lazy river.  
  
America swirled his hips, admiring his own hella control, admiring England stretched out beneath him, eyes closed and mouth open as he murmured British-sounding things in encouragement: ta, there's a good lad, ah-my-yes.  
  
That definitely counted as cheering the ol' guy up. "Diplomatic -- ah-- mission accomplished," America breathed down at him.  
  
"What were you hoping to accomplish?"  
  
 _This._ America arched his back and squeezed his ass, then metaphorically patted himself on the back for the way England gasped _oh-ah!_ "I was hoping the dollar might gain a few points against the pound."  
  
"I knew you had ulterior motives in coming here," England said in a grousing sort of voice.  
  
"Hah!" America put his stomach muscles to work. He was sinuous as a snake, oh yeah. "There's, uh, nothing ulterior about me. I'm ... uh, anterior. Exterior. Something."  
  
England's eyelids flew open and he laughed, so hard he shook them both and jostled America's glasses down his nose. "Ah hah hah! That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard this week."  
  
America would have _hmph_ ed, but seeing England so pleased made his throat all fizzy again. And it didn't affect England's dick any, America noticed. It was still hard inside him, and when he rowed the boat just so, hit him in all sorts of interesting places.  
  
It was interesting enough that after a few moments, as England's chortles tapered off and their easy river-rhythm settled into something sensuous and word-free and breathy, America's dick took notice. It plumped up against England's pale stomach and America energized his pace. _Ah, there. Ah-there, yes, indeedy_. The drop of England's chin, the hitching of his chest, the dent England's hand made in the bedcovers where America was pressing it: the moments to etch into his brain came faster and faster, like the rock of his own hips, pressing England's cock harder and harder inside him, driving the reborn, yearning ache into focus--  
  
And then his glasses slid right off his face, plonking right onto England's shiny forehead. They bounced and clattered to the wooden floor. England winced, and America's involuntary all-over reply-wince kicked him out of rhythm. Some bone or another knocked into some corresponding bone in England's hips that it prolly shouldn't have.  
  
"Ow," said America.  
  
"Ooof," said England.  
  
After that real smooth move, things totally went back to hell. The light coming through the window turned grey. The candles all snuffed out. England bitched at him and his own boner died a sad death and--  
  
\-- is what America expected to happen, but he'd underestimated the improvement in England's mood (divided by half of sex). What did happen was that England chuckled -- such a funny word but the only one to describe the deep rumble in his chest coupled with the flash of his teeth -- and pried his hand out of America's and off the bedsheets. He used it to slap America's ass-cheek.  
  
"Up, then! Up. Something a little less violent to preserve my innards, I think."  
  
"Who knew you were so delicate," America ventured, but he crawled off.  
  
England merely grinned and circled his finger in the air, once, twice, three times. On your knees, on your knees, on your knees.  
  
"Woof," America said again. He assumed the position.  
  
And again England ignored his doggy joke, ha ha, and assumed his own position behind. America arched his back in anticipation at the scratch of England's fine leg-hairs against the inside of his calves.  
  
The daylight was still broad and the walls old, but nothing was weird as England slid his palms over America's ass-cheeks, then pushed his cock inside, saying, "That's right, that's good, America," in a voice so thick America could have spread it on a crumpet.  
  
Maybe the creaking of the old, iron bed was a little funny but America hardly cared as there was so much more to occupy ol' Wall Street. England fucked him but good, bent over and pressed so close he could probably count the vertebra in America's spine through their flesh, his mouth open and hot on his shoulder, his hands grasping and stroking whatever skin they could reach with desperate appreciation.  
  
Sex with England had been a revelation. Sure, maybe America had "done it" before, and maybe with someone who had a well-deserved reputation (America wouldn't think his name, he would not). But America hadn't been in -- hadn't spent two-thirds of his life being worked into some emotional frenzy or another by anyone besides England.  
  
They'd make friends, then fight and divide, and then be drawn back. Lather, rinse, repeat. And then there was this: his body awoken to possibility, by England, by the relentless pounding of England's cock inside him.  
  
Eventually England's roving hands settled down, if wrapping his arms around America's waist and holding on tightly counted. Over and over he breathed sharp _ah_ s, like twenty-five percent of America's name multiplied by minutes, into America's back and let his hips do the fancy work, side to side, up and down, little circles of pressure and friction in a rhythm that never should have worked.  
  
But like everything they did together, work it somehow did. America was aching and yearning for every thrust, from his toes (curled in the sheets) to his nose (ground into the mattress).  
  
At least he wasn't expected to make witty repartee while being fucked so thoroughly. Not that he could do much more than munch the sheets with answering _oh-ah_ s of pleasure, cut off with each breath as England squeezed him more and more tightly.  
  
Talk about hella control: England admittedly had it. He found just the rhythm to make America's skin hot all over, and kept it up for long, wonderful minutes.  
  
Eventually he slowed, slowed, his breaths on America's back becoming longer and deeper, and -- superb fellow, ta -- relaxed his death-grip around America's middle and flattened his palm over America's cock, pressing it against his belly.  
  
America gasped, not only because he could breathe again, and rocked his hips against the rub of England's slippery hand, seeking the contact on his aching skin. England had him, man, owned his flesh from the front and the back, and in between he was nothing but a tight, molten core of pleasure. And that was how it worked, too; giving it all up for moments of abandon and intimacy and hoping you'd get it back without a fight.  
  
"Excellent, excellent," England breathed, matching the rhythm of his thrusts to the way America fucked his hand.  
  
"Glad you think so," America managed to pant, and, maybe at sound of his voice or the wittiness of his repartee, England came, his breath hitching and his hips stuttering. He managed a last, few thrusts but America was easy: England's hand would have been enough. England, and his crazy eyebrows--  
  
Pleasure spiked hot in America's belly and he climaxed again, zapped by one of those hard second orgasms that came out of nowhere, good and fast and _nnngh_.  
  
"You're too -- huh -- easy," England huffed over America's shoulder, and then he rolled off and flopped onto the bed. The dry part of the bed, of course.  
  
No, America was weak, zinged out of his gourd by sex, or he never would've replied, "Dude, stop reading my _mind_."  
  
"Was I?" England asked in a breathless and wondering-sounding voice. America collapsed onto his side and glanced over at him. He was sweaty in the sunlight and staring from under knitted eyebrows at the ceiling, as if it held the answers he sought. Or maybe he was just using telepathy. "At which part, exactly, was I reading it?"  
  
"Hn, hn," America laughed, still trying to catch his breath. "If you don't know, I ain't tellin'."  
  
England grimaced and made as if to slap America's ass again, but at the moment of impact he softened the blow and turned it into a caress.  
  
"No, really," he said. "I've always thought a great many communication issues could be solved with a little mind-reading."  
  
No, they could be solved by learning to say what one meant. Therein lay the ideology divides, the missed connections. The struggles of political and interpersonal relations that made ... chances worth taking. Bright ideas worth having. "There's diplomacy for you," America murmured.  
  
England shook his head a couple of times, like chasing away uncomfortable thoughts. He looked over, his eyes green and not mossy at all, and slid his hand from America's hip to lace their fingers together. "And that was a foolish fantasy quelled by some sense from you. Will wonders never cease?"  
  
England's voice was soft, his fingers all swirly against his again; it was a dangerous instant for America's heart, because he knew England understood grabbing at moments, too. America was the one reading minds but he was almost painfully naked under England's steady gaze -- more naked than merely unclothed. Which he was.  
  
Thankfully his stomach rumbled.  
  
England rolled his eyes. "Predictable."  
  
"You did make me miss lunch. You promised kebabs," America said.  
  
This was familiar, safe ground: the back-and-forth, the little accusations and arguments. All acted with affection, of course.  
  
"Well, I'm not going anywhere at the moment," England said. He released America's hand and then started to brush his hair back from his own forehead, halting his movement in midair and staring at his palm with narrowed eyes. Yep, it was covered in America's jizz. Then England shrugged and wiped his head anyway.  
  
America snorted and England tilted his gaze back at him.  
  
"We could fuck again, and then I'll make us some tea?"  
  
America groaned and buried his face in the pillow, only partially so that England couldn't see his grin. "But my ass hurts," he whined. Only partially faking.  
  
"How fortunate you'll recover quickly."  
  
True. His heart did a thumpy-thump: he was totally easy. But then, he'd hit the sex jackpot. Well worth the trip. Still, it wouldn't do to give in too easily, and who the hell wanted tea?  
  
"But my ass hurts and I'm hungry."  
  
"It's not even dinnertime. You're a bottomless pit."  
  
"Oh, the abuse," America moaned into the pillow. "I come all this way and get called cunt and bottomless pit and accused of ulterior motives! France would have given me wine and food and--"  
  
"You little twit!" England swatted America's ear and grabbed his head, forcing his face out of the pillow. When he saw America was fighting not to laugh (so maybe his poker-face was for shit) he crawled atop him and pressed him into the covers, blowing away all America's objections. With tongue.  
  
And with his hands and his thighs and. In the end they did have sex again, face-to-face just like that, with England doing all the work. All America had to do was lie back and think of England, because France would totally have been the wrong person.  
  
America did manage to lock his hands and ankles behind England's back and move and breathe and stuff and it was hard to do, what with giving his heart away every few minutes at the look in England's eyes. It was okay, though; he'd fight for it back if he had to.  
  
It was totally hours before he got his stupid kebab sandwiches. Three hours and seventeen minutes and four-point-five seconds, in fact, because America was counting.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, concrit, etc., all welcomed and appreciated! Truly!


End file.
